Six months later, the note gnawed an uncomfortable hole in my psyche. “Dear Nancy, I haven’t heard from you in a while. I am reminding you that your deadline for the completed novel is December 31”. My editor had pressed upon me the urgency. She needed a manuscript in her hands by the end of the year. She had a quota to fill. "Oh yes!" said I. "Of course I can have it ready for you, no problem. Why it’s practically finished already." Lies, lies, lies! I tell such convincing lies. I even believe them myself!
The truth of the matter; my almost complete opus only needed an ending. For three months now that small thing eluded me. A writer has many tricks to avoid facing deadlines and other realities. One of mine is to stop changing the desk calendar. The date before my eyes consistently read November 1, for nearly two months. It’s a delusion, but much less threatening than the real date.
With my writing career in dire jeopardy, I needed to face facts or find a new job. I began by ripping off the pages of wasted time. “Goodbye Thanksgiving and farewell Christmas. It’s so nice to send you back where you belong.” I sang to the tune of “Hello Dolly” as I threw the past into a small waste basket. Papers overflowed the basket of trashed time. “Perhaps I should say a eulogy for those lost days. “November was such a lovely month spent in foggy day dreams. Too soon, December pushed her into oblivion and then met his own demise after cramming the third piece of mince pie down his gullet. Farewell to days gone by.”
Well, calendar, at least now you tell the truth; December 28. Oh the panic! Only two days left until my career comes crashing down. Oh no! Oh no!”
On the computer monitor those darn fish danced about the screen. I watched for a few minutes and then rubbing the mouse across its pad, I revived the desktop and clicked the game icon. I had already played four games of Solitaire before conscious thought returned.
“What am I doing?” I shouted at myself. With two days to meet this deadline, I’m sitting here playing Solitaire. I don’t even like Solitaire!”
Outside the window, melting icicles from the eaves of my roof dripped in a rhythmical beat as they pelted the ground below. “ Ah, a jazz piece; the melting ice rag; not an end to my novel, but a great jazz piece! How long does it take to become a composer?”
“Okay, reality check! It’s time look at this *&%* story. Maybe, inspiration will hit me. I didn’t really believe it but opened the story anyway. “Hmm, I guess I should reread this. Maybe I can figure it out.” So, once again, this would-be author sat hunched over the computer engrossed in text last worked on three months earlier.
Arriving at the final words, I thought, “Wow! Who wrote that that? It’s not half bad! Maybe I can finish this in time if I just focus. What would Maria do next, I wonder?”
“Why don’t you just ask me, loquita?”
"What? Who spoke? Is this the beginning of insanity? Now I’m talking to myself and answering too?"
“No, fool, it’s I, Maria, your protagonist. I’m ready to move on in my life. You’re holding me back. Please release me! I must continue!”
“Okay, I can play this game. Tell me then, what do you really want? You know that Alfredo is no good for you, yet you keep going back to him. What’s the matter with you? Why don’t you leave him for good this time?”
“My dear creator, give me a reason to leave him. Right now, I am nothing without him. What can you add to my life that will allow me an escape?”
“Well let’s review your life. You supported yourself and your daughter without help from that scumbag. That shows strength of character, no?”
“I washed other people’s clothing! I took in sewing. Can you even imagine how humiliating it was for me? An unwed mother outcast by her community, I left my village and found survival in Madrid. Yes, I did what I could to keep my daughter fed and warm. Alfredo makes beautiful babies, but he doesn’t give a damn about their welfare. I wonder how many more fatherless children wear his genetic stamp. But you, you created all this. It’s your fault the way my life worked out. This is our last chance. How do we resolve it? I will tell you this. Make me respectable or kill me. Even my daughter regards me with shame and wants nothing to do with me. This is what I ask you to fix. I need respect!”
“Wow, calm down. I didn’t realize how much bitterness you harbor. My dear creation, let me fix things for you. You’ve finished raising your daughter. Now you can focus on yourself. Together we will redeem your life. Tell me, what did you dream before Alfredo planted his seed within you? What did you hope for your life?”
“My dreams then were the dreams of a girl. I am a middle aged woman now. My foolish younger self wished to be an actress. People used to remark on my beauty; told me I should be on the stage where all could admire me. I don’t even know if I had the talent to pursue that nonsense, and what does it matter? Before my seventeenth birthday I held my daughter to my breast. From that time on, all dreams faded. What hope lies ahead for me now? Please tell me.”
After much consideration, an idea popped into my head. “I know what you need to do. The countess of Aragon needs a companion for her invalid daughter. You will present yourself to her. She will see the strength of a woman who has endured pain and survived. You will live in her palace and prosper. Your daughter will feel remorse, but I will let you decide whether or not to forgive her the pain she caused you. In time you will become a respected lady. Alfredo will never again cross your path. If you like, he could die an unpleasant death at the hands of a scorned lover. Perhaps, another man will capture your heart, but not in my book. If that interests you, look for him when my tale ends.”
As I spoke with Maria, my fingers flew across the computer keys. Occasionally, she voiced her opinions at my choice of words and situations. I didn’t stop to eat or sleep, only to pee. By the afternoon of December 30, I typed the final period in my novel, did a quick edit, and sent the completed work to my editor via email. Click, click, end of story! Wow! I did it. Time to celebrate!
From somewhere inside my head came an admonishing voice, “Hey Senora, thank you for my happy ending. Now, Lady Smug Face, please give me some credit for the help I gave you!”
I thought about her words while I trudged through the snow to "Mr. Espresso"; the relationship between a writer and her characters; hmmmm.
I arrived at the coffee shop where that dancing coffee cup beckoned me to enter while the sign on the door still reminded me to keep it closed. I left it open on purpose.
Before reaching the counter, I saw Lilly sitting in my favorite dark corner and went to her. She looked terrible. Her normally impeccable clothing appeared disheveled and her makeup looked caked. I greeted her.
She looked up without a smile. “The Ulka Gallery rejected my latest work. “Too derivative”, they said. I am a fraud. My work is worthless.” She stared into space avoiding my eyes.
I left her to order my latte. “Yes!” I thought to myself. “Life can be sweet!”
No comments:
Post a Comment